Murder Games
by whitecoralbelles
Summary: "Somewhere along the way it had been become almost blasé, and now murder was simply another distraction, a diversion for the rich and powerful who spent their weekends and summers at Tudor Hall."


A sharp crack reverberated through the room; a slender, gloved hand laid the smoking gun on the mahogany side table. Deliberate fingers stripped off the white silk, rolling the gloves together into a small ball and tossing them into the corner behind the chaise lounge. It would only be a matter of time before someone burst through the door—most likely Colonel Mustard, considering he liked to spend his evenings in the study, not too far down the hall. Mrs. White was closer, of course, cleaning up the remains of dinner in the dining room, but the old harpy wouldn't want to be the first one at the scene of a shooting. She had proven _that_ several times over.

Despite the ever-decreasing window in which to escape, the murder's movements remained calm. Killing was an inescapable part of the intrigues that plagued this particular social circle, and this certainly wasn't the first murder that had taken place in this particular manor. Somewhere along the way it had been become almost blasé, and now murder was simply another distraction, a diversion for the rich and powerful who spent their weekends and summers at Tudor Hall.

As the first pounding footsteps sounded in the corridor outside—Colonel Mustard's powerful gait for sure—the door that opened onto the secret passage to the conservatory was closing softly. By the time the main door to the lounge was thrown inward, the killer was easing into the empty room on the other side of the stone tunnel. Mustard's roar was loud enough to carry throughout the entire ground floor; all over the mansion, houseguests and staff alike, the murderer included, emerged into the corridor with knowing looks tinged with relief—this time, at least, the killer had struck elsewhere. Almost as one the group headed toward the lounge and the racket of Colonel Mustard's cry, and within a few moments they were all gathered around the…bodies?

With very few exceptions, the murders that took place in this house were single affairs, with only one victim per crime. Tonight, however, the murderer had upped the ante—two bodies sprawled across the sofa, bloody limbs entangled, each in various states of undress. The cause of the Colonel's anguished wail was now apparent; the lovely Miss Vivienne Scarlet, the current object of his affection, was one half of the couple, and it was obvious what it was she and her companion, Mr. Boddy, had been up to when they met their demise. It must have been a double blow, the evidence of her rejection of his advances along with her death.

"Quiet, man! Get a grip on yourself!" Mr. Green hauled Colonel Mustard to his feet, taking him by the shoulders and shaking him roughly. "What the devil happened here?"

"I should think that would be obvious," sneered Mrs. White, her voice a perfect mixture of condescension and righteousness. In the maid's mind, the scandal of her employer's sexual involvement with his young guest was far more bothersome than the fact that they had been murdered.

"I suppose someone should contact the police, then," Professor Plum noted, moving toward the telephone on the side table.

"Really, Professor, the authorities?" Mrs. Peacock interrupted, sounding bored. From her tone of voice, one would assume that she was discussing nothing more pressing than a game of charades, and certainly not her own daughter's murder. No one commented on her apparent lack of concern. "We all know the law enforcement in this town is…less than competent. Why get them involved at all? They are completely ineffectual, and we shall be up all night answering their inane questions. "

"Nonetheless, we must observe the due process-oh ho, what's this?" He had reached the table that supported the phone, and something else as well. Drawing a handkerchief from his jacket pocket, the Professor gingerly dropped it over the handle of the revolver before lifting the covered gun between two fingers. "It appears we have the murder weapon."

"I agree with Mrs. Peacock," Mr. Green commented from his stance behind Colonel Mustard; he appeared to be supporting the military man, who had fallen into silence but was still pale. The lady herself preened much like the animal of her name as Mr. Green continued. "We have the weapon, and undoubtedly the perpetrator here as well. The authorities have nothing to go on that we do not have ourselves; I say we conduct the investigation on our own."

Not even Professor Plum objected as everyone considered the matter. Finally the silence was broken as Colonel Mustard raised fiery eyes from the floor. "Indeed! Whoever is responsible shall pay at my hand!" His own revolver was pulled from its place at his hip and brandished in the air as his slightly mad gaze darted between his companions.

Mrs. Peacock sniffed, her nose thrust haughtily into the air. "Well! Such unpleasantness! If you don't mind, I shall retire for the night, and we can get to the business of clearing this matter up in the morning. I trust you can arrange to have this," she indicated the corpses of Miss Scarlet and Mr. Boddy with a flick of her hand, "taken care of, Mrs. White?" Without waiting for a reply, Mrs. Peacock swept out of the lounge.

Hours later, the murderer lay in bed, smirking at the ceiling. Those fools! The police were nothing compared to the idiocy of the other occupants of Tudor Hall. All the evidence had been covered so carefully—the gloves had been retrieved after everyone was tucked into bed and tossed into the fireplace; now they were so much ash on the hearth. There were no fingerprints anywhere to be found, no telltale blood spatter on anything but the sofa and floor of the lounge. It would be simple to produce an alibi—nearly everyone had been alone while the murder was taking place. Doubtless someone would be willing to conspire to create a tale of their whereabouts that each could confirm for the other. Yes, this had been all too easy.

The next morning, the company from the night before gathered once more at the scene of the crime. Without speaking of it aloud, everyone avoided the sofa that had cushioned the grisly tableau only hours earlier, although Professor Plum did ask, "What happened to the bodies?"

"Had them lugged out back after you examined them," Mr. Green grunted. "Got Rusty to bury them in some back corner of the garden. He won't talk." He hardly needed to add that last bit—Rusty was a bitter old man with a deep mistrust of all law enforcement. The last thing he would do would be to go to them, even with a double homicide on his hands.

"Well, then!" Professor Plum clapped his hands together, the very picture of academia, eager to jump in and deduce himself to Nirvana. "Let us begin our investigation. We shall start, of course, with opportunity. Which among us had the opportunity to commit these murders?" No answers were forthcoming, and the Professor turned reproachful eyes upon his companions. "Come now. Colonel Mustard, let's begin with you."

Red faced, the Colonel surged to his feet, his revolver once more waving through the air. "Why you cad! How dare you suggest that I had something to do with this dastardly deed! I shall duel you to a standstill, sir, and finish you off with—"

"My dear Colonel, no one was suggesting you murdered Mr. Boddy or Miss Scarlet. Please do sit down." Mrs. Peacock frowned severely at the Colonel until even a man of his fortitude had no choice but to meekly resume his seat. Once he was seated, she continued, "It so happens that I saw the Colonel enter the study only a moment before the murders, as I happened down the corridor. I spoke to him at the time, and had only left him perhaps a minute before I heard his cry."

"As to our opportunity, Plum, you and I were having a game of billiards at the time," Mr. Green remarked, and the Professor nodded.

"Indeed we were. Mrs. White?"

"Cleaning up in the dining room. The two kitchen girls—Yvette and Rose—can tell you that."

A crease furrowed Professor Plum's brow. "Apparently, none of us had the opportunity to kill Mr. Boddy or Miss Scarlet. I do not need to tell you that—"

"One of us is lying, yes, yes, Professor. Please, let's continue," Mrs. Peacock interjected impatiently. "I do have plans today, you know."

"Of course," Plum agreed. "Next is means. Who had access to the revolver, and to the victims?"

"Well, any of us could have gotten to Boddy and Vivienne," Colonel Mustard put in. "And Boddy always was careless with his weapons. There's a gun cabinet in the library that's never locked."

"Which you seem to know quite a bit about!" Mrs. White accused. Before Mustard could brandish his own weapon again, Mrs. Peacock laid a hand on his arm and shot a withering glare at the maid.

"As do you, as the woman in charge of keeping Tudor Hall free of dirt."

"That's enough," Mr. Green's smooth baritone cut in. "We all knew about the guns."

"Therefore," Professor Plum continued the train of thought, "All and none of us could have done it, according to what we have so far. Let us proceed to motive then. I shall begin."

"You're going to tell us your own motive for murder?" Mrs. White asked incredulously.

Professor Plum shot her a disdainful look before he resumed speaking. "A week ago, I helped Mr. Boddy draw up a new will. A will that named his sole beneficiary—Miss Scarlet."

"Where are you going with this, Plum?" Colonel Mustard growled.

"Patience, my friend. I also happen to be privy to the contents of Miss Scarlet's will, which in the event of her death leaves everything to her mother, Mrs. Peacock."

A rather thunderous expression crossed Mrs. Peacock's features. "How dare you accuse me of murdering my own daughter for her money!"

"Not only her money, but Mr. Boddy's substantial fortune as well," pointed out Mr. Green.

"Well, before you all start pointing fingers at me, perhaps you should think about the maid over there!"

Mrs. White looked shocked. "Me? Why on earth would I kill anyone?"

"Apart from the fact that you never made a secret of how you hated to work for Mr. Boddy, especially after that affair twenty years ago?" sneered Mrs. Peacock. "Everyone knows how livid you were when Boddy refused to acknowledge your son, Alfred. When you saw that he was involved with my daughter, you murdered him out of spite, and her for having what you could not!"

"Well, I never!" Mrs. White exclaimed. "If we're on the subject of jealous lovers, why not ask the Colonel what happened? It's obvious; he found out that Miss Scarlet spurned his advances and then murdered her and her lover! And he was here when we all arrived—he must have just dropped the gun and then screamed to divert attention from himself!"

Colonel Mustard was on his feet, revolver drawn for the third time, before Mrs. White had finished her tirade. "Now see here, madam," he blustered. "I had nothing to do with this! If you're looking for someone to blame, look no farther than Green here. Boddy turned him down for a loan last month, and he's been out for blood ever since. Poor Vivienne just got caught in the crossfire."

Mr. Green kept his seat, but his voice was harsh as he pointed a meaty finger towards Professor Plum. "Plum is behind all of this, not I! I heard Boddy talk of denying him another research grant after he squandered that last one! The great Professor couldn't descend into poverty, now could he?"

"That's nonsense!" Professor Plum objected. "My research grant was never in question. It's obvious who the culprit is here!"

"Oh, yes, it must be I, because the Professor has said so!" Mrs. Peacock exclaimed caustically. Hers was only one of many comments thrown out at the same time, as everyone hastened to defend themselves and accuse whomever it was they considered responsible.

Finally each of the suspects exhausted their theories or proclamations of innocence. As they began to repeat themselves they tapered off into silence, and after a half hour of surly quiet they moved their separate ways. It was evident that they were getting nowhere.

_Five Years Later_

The reading of the will drew to a close in the early afternoon. Mrs. Peacock descended the front steps of the courthouse with a stately, contented walk. Half a decade after their "disappearance," Mr. Boddy and Miss Scarlet's fortunes were in her hands! It had taken that long to get the two of them declared legally dead, as well as move through the legal hassle created by others trying to claim the vast amounts of wealth that were now hers—hers!

Of course, the money was only an added bonus. The whole affair had never actually been about the will, although when Professor Plum had brought it up all those years before it had been the icing on the cake. No, her daughter had not died for money, but rather for her well deserved comeuppance. Little harlot, she just _had_ to set her sights on Mr. Boddy! Why, the man was old enough to be her father! Would have been her father, or step-father, at least, if Mrs. Peacock had had her way. But then the tramp had gone and seduced him, and in a cold, calculating rage Mrs. Peacock had taken her revenge. The imbeciles she loosely termed friends had never caught on—after that debacle of accusations the day after the murder, they had all agreed to cover it among themselves, all acting as the others' shield. The police had been called after the couple had been "missing" for two weeks; the generally held consensus was that they had eloped. When they didn't show up for three years, the proceedings were started to declare them dead.

And now…now, the murderess strode down the street, head held arrogantly high, not a shadow of guilt on her soul. No one would ever know that it had been Mrs. Peacock, in the lounge, with the revolver.


End file.
